A psychic has been
murdered in an occult ceremony and the police pay a visit to Riga
Hayworth, metaphysical detective. But this time, she’s not a
consultant on the case, she’s a suspect.

There’s a storm on the
horizon. Riga’s lost her magic, and has come to Lake Tahoe to
recover and spend quality time with her new love. But life for Riga
is never that simple. A psychic’s been murdered, and the police
believe Riga has a connection to the crime. They’re right. And if
that’s not enough, Riga is drafted as the host of a reality TV show
about the local lake monster, and her niece is rejecting her
metaphysical abilities. Juggling demons, daimons, and angry tarot
card readers, Riga must catch a killer before she becomes the next
target.

The Alchemical Detective
is a paranormal mystery that explores a world of alchemy and the
imagination.

Short Excerpt:

The egg quivered, then rolled,
seemingly of its own accord, to the edge of the counter.

Riga stared at it, her violet-colored
eyes narrowed in concentration. Magic, she reminded herself, was a
matter of will and she had that in spades. However, it was also a
matter of focus and in this area, she was lacking.

The egg trembled, then slowly rose into
the air; one inch, two inches, five.

“Yes,” Brigitte said encouragingly,
her voice a French-accented Lauren Bacall. Her stone claws tensed,
gouging tracks in the linoleum countertop.

Riga hurried to the sink and turned on
the tap, frustration wrinkling her brow. She grabbed a dishtowel and
soaked it in warm water. Her hands trembled and Riga swore under her
breath. Two months ago, this would have been easy.

At first she’d thought her magic was
gone. Now Riga knew it had gone haywire and her rehab attempts
weren’t working. If anything, her magic had become more
unpredictable, more dangerous. She only dared practice with Brigitte
because the centuries-old gargoyle was made of stone. But even
Brigitte wasn’t indestructible.

Someone beat upon the front door and
Riga whipped around, startled. She should have sensed whoever was
coming up the steps. Another small failure. More pounding; the
cheap wooden door vibrated beneath the blows.

“Police! Open the door!”

Gargoyle and woman looked at each
other. Woman acted first. Riga tossed the towel in the sink.
“Don’t move,” she said to Brigitte.

“But ze egg. It dries like cement,”
Brigitte wailed.

“Later.” Riga hurried to the door
and flung it open. A chilly blast of pine-scented air swept inside,
tossing Riga’s auburn hair and stinging her skin.

Two sheriffs stood before her in wide
brimmed hats and heavy dark brown parkas. Riga might have taken them
for rangers had it not been for their belts, strapped with weapons,
slung low on their hips. The older one had his fist raised for
another round of door pummeling. He lowered it with what looked like
regret. He was bulky, bearlike, with steel blue eyes, and she
imagined he enjoyed making the door shiver beneath his fist. The tag
under his badge read: Sheriff John King. The badge itself: El Dorado
County.

“I heard a woman scream,” King
said.

“I banged my shin on the coffee
table,” Riga said.

“Are you alone?” He peered over
Riga’s shoulder. It wasn’t hard – Riga was five foot six, and
he stood well over six feet tall, imposing in every direction.

“Yes. Can I help you?” Riga
didn’t budge, unwilling to let them in. It wasn’t that Riga
didn’t like cops; she was friends with plenty of them, when they
were out of uniform.

“It was quite a scream,” he said.

She quirked her lips. “Now you’re
just embarrassing me.”

The Sheriff looked at her. She
returned his gaze. The silence stretched between them.

The Deputy coughed. “Are you Ms.
Hayworth?” he asked. Riga figured him for his early thirties,
which meant she had a decade on him. He was well built, and between
the startling pale blue of his eyes and the chiseled planes of his
face, would have looked at home on a magazine cover. But Riga’s
gaze was drawn to the Sheriff. The Deputy had youth, the Sheriff had
presence.

“I’m Riga Hayworth.”

“My name is Night, Deputy Night. May
we come in? Please?” He smiled ruefully, exposing dimples and
gleaming white teeth. “It’s kind of cold out here.”

Riga hesitated. But she wasn’t
wearing a coat and was freezing in the doorway. She could feel the
heat from the cabin oozing past her, out the door. “Okay.”
Reluctantly, she stepped back, and allowed them past her.

Hands resting on the butts of their
guns, they prowled the room as if they owned the place. They could
have it, for all Riga cared. It was one of the lower-end tourist
cabins, crammed with a mis-matched jumble of seventies era furniture.
A giant picture window looked out upon a forest scene: pines, and
patches of snow wetting the ground. The afternoon sun slanted low in
the sky, sending beams of light glittering through damp tree
branches.

Brigitte, still covered in egg, had
shifted to face the cabin’s small living room. The deputy stared
at the gargoyle, walked to Brigitte, and ran his hands across her
stony feathers as if in a caress. Brigitte would love that, Riga
thought.

“Cool harpy,” he said. “Where’d
you find it?”

“Garage sale.”

Night tucked his hat under one arm, and
ruffled his blond hair with his free hand. “Do you know it’s got
egg on it?”

“Forget the statue,” the Sheriff
barked. Turning, he stumbled over a cheap American-Indian themed
rug. “Miss Hayworth, may we sit down?”

She indicated the lumpy sofa, a cruel
gesture given the state of its springs, but she didn’t want them to
linger.

Kirsten worked overseas for nearly
fourteen years, in the fringes of the former USSR and deep in the
Afghan war zone. Her experiences abroad not only gave her glimpses
into the darker side of human nature, but also sparked an interest in
the effects of mysticism and mythology, and how both are woven into
our daily lives.

Now based in San Mateo, CA, she
writes paranormal mysteries, blending her experiences and imagination
to create a vivid world of magic and mayhem.

Kirsten has never met a dessert
she didn’t like, and her guilty pleasures are watching True Blood
and drinking good wine.